


Dinner and a Movie

by Siriex, vitriol



Series: FSF SCP Foundation AU [2]
Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation, Gen, We're going full Found Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22411930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriex/pseuds/Siriex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitriol/pseuds/vitriol
Summary: Sigma grew up on the battlefield.-A bit of a spin-off of 9664. It heavily references that fic, so I'd recommend you read at least the first two chapters of that one before starting this one.
Series: FSF SCP Foundation AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612933
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Change comes quiet

There is always a war if you know where to look for it.

Sigma learned the signs when he was still young.

War comes with pitted land, empty stares, and cities absent a generation. Sigma follows in its furrows.

War means duality. Life and death, loss and gain, triumph and fear. Sigma seeks the latter. Desperate armies are less likely to question an additional man in their ranks. He slips in during the night, alights on an abandoned cot, and eats dead men’s rations. He kills more than he’d like, but he does not die.

When the food dries up, he finds another front.

Today his rifle, issued to him by a corpse, rests against his clavicle while he waits for orders or death. Gunfire drowns out anything beyond the pitted wall where he hides. There are bodies at his feet. He pays them no mind. The warm body at his arm is more concerning.

He is not a soldier that Sigma has seen before, and his uniform is far too pristine to belong to any of his current comrades. The soldiers here are dirt-stained and tired, but this man’s teeth are marble gravestones, and his skin is sunkissed, not burned.

Sigma is not shy about his stare.

The man seems to sense it. He turns and his hair (far too long for war) trails over his shoulder. “Aren’t you a little young to be dying out here?”

The premise of the question is flawed to start. Sigma has known soldiers both half and twice his age. They all died the same. He stays silent.

“I said, aren’t you a little young to be dying out here?”

His voice booms. If bullets were not already eating away at their shelter, Sigma would have to kill him. Instead, he stares.

The man knocks his head back against the wall and looks to the sky. There are enough cracks in the roof to show it. “Kids like you should be in school. Playing sports and chasing skirts. Looking at you, I bet you throw a mean fastball.”

Sigma weaves the barrel of his gun through a window. Fires. Retracts it.

“How old are you anyway? High school? College?”

Sigma knocks the empty magazine out of his gun and kicks it aside. He does not need to pat his pockets to know that he’s drained his supply dry. But there are corpses, and corpses don’t need bullets. He reaches right.

The man stops talking.

Sigma pulls a fresh magazine through the man’s chest and slides it home.

“How could you tell?”

Rather than answer the question, Sigma threads another needle. Takes another few shots. The gunfire slamming into their cover lessens, if only for the moment. He drops back down.

Sigma has learned many things across many battlefields. He learned to shoot a gun when he was five. Learned what it was like to kill a man not long after. He knows how to treat wounds, follow orders, and slip away without being noticed.

Sigma knows that he is not the only hungry thing hopping battlefields. This one is subtler than most. It speaks in human tongue, casts a shadow, and Sigma can even smell the scent of faint cologne. But it has overlooked one small thing. There is only one way in or out of Sigma’s hide out, and only bullets have passed through.

A hand enters his vision. “My name’s Watcher. You’re Sigma, right?”

For the second time, Sigma takes stock of his visitor. His skin is clear, his eyes are bright, and his uniform does not belong to either army.

“I’ve heard a lot about you- been looking a long time. This ain’t my war or yours, so what do you say we get outta here? Grab dinner and a pint. My treat.”

A meal with a ghost is the sort of offer than only a madman would take.

Sigma’s world has never been sane anyways.

\--

“They say he’s Hisau’s kid.”

The name follows Sigma while he follows Watcher. He does not know what they mean, so he ignores it. It is easy. There are other things occupying his mind, like memorizing the facility’s twists and turns. Past three sets of security outposts, spaced about half a mile apart. In through steel-plated doors more suited to keeping things in than keeping people out. Another round of security, with more mental and biological screening tests than Sigma knew existed. From there, a right into an endless hallway. A left after the fifth door. Up two flights of stairs, another right, past seven doors, down another flight of stairs, straight down a hallway to a set of elevators. Down eleven floors.

The office does not have a nameplate. Watcher gestures for Sigma to open the door and step through. He does, fingers lingering on the pistol Watcher’d fought to let him keep. There are two chairs- one behind a desk devoid of burden, and one before it. Sigma positions himself in the furthest corner of the room where he can see the door. He does not sit.

It is this habit that lets him see the moment Watcher disappears. His body floats away like smoke.

Someone clears their throat from the desk.

Sigma’s gun is in his hand before he thinks.

The woman leaning against it is outfitted like a pilot, down to the goggles strapped to her head. She smells like fresh air. She raises her hands in playful surrender. “Woah there, tiger! Caution can’t hurt, but I’m not a threat. Thought you would’ve figured that out by now!”

Her words, gestures, and appearance are all different from the man who’d brought him here, but he is gone, and she is here, and she has his strange habit of sinking into any object she touches.

Sigma lowers his weapon. “Watcher?”

Watcher laughs, and her curls bounce. She moves around the desk to slip into his space. “You’re sharp, but that’s exactly why I went looking for you. I’d like to hire you if you’re up for it. I’m offering three square meals a day, a roof over your head, and a salary with opportunity for promotion. It’s a pretty good deal if you ask me.”

It _is_ a good deal, and it is more than anyone has ever offered him. But there are a million other soldiers she could tempt for less. The flight from Sigma’s warzone took hours. They were probably closer too. So Sigma asks the obvious question.

Watcher has an answer ready. “I made your mother the same offer a long time ago. She was one of the best we ever had.” Her use of past tense precludes any other questions Sigma might have had. “It’s not a cushy job, but you’ll be safer than that battlefield. Not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

Sigma is sold by ‘meals.’ He signs the papers she offers him in a blocky scrawl.

\--

Some of the other soldiers in the barracks complain that the mattresses are stiff, but Sigma has never felt anything so soft. It feels like sinking into mud when he tries to sleep. Only the bone-dead exhaustion he’s been burning through for twenty years can drag him under.

For the fifth month in a row, he wakes in the dark, surrounded by people just this side of strangers. Someone is crying in their sleep again. Likely Monsalud. He always gets this way before a mission. Once Sigma overheard someone asking why he did not just request a heavy dose of amnestics and quit. He’d replied that, for some things, forgetting was scarier.

When the lights snap on, Sigma is already in uniform. Commander Patel has long since stopped looking surprised.

“Up and at ‘em. Teams Six, Seventeen, and Twenty, meet me in front of the mess at 0800. We’ve got a briefing with Dr. Willis at 0830, and we’re shipping out at 0900.”

Acknowledgement rumbles through the room, back to front. Patel leaves.

Sigma makes for the cafeteria.

-

Dr. Willis is new to the Foundation- only just older than Sigma. He’s watched her presentation style grow with every briefing. Where once she floundered, now she speaks. Most of the information is not new. They have been researching and subsequently chasing this anomaly for several years. Given its human-like intelligence, it is no surprise that the Foundation is having some trouble, but if that was all, they’d have cornered it months ago.

The problem is how it always seems to know when they are coming.

Since arriving at the Foundation, Sigma has been deployed to secure this particular anomaly no less than twelve times. He has never caught sight of it. Not even once.

But Dr. Willis seems optimistic. She pulls up her PowerPoint with an enormous grin. “We’ve received some information. Our anomaly is traveling with someone else.” A picture flicks onto the screen. It is blurry, as most surveillance footage is, but clear enough that Sigma can make out the appearance of its subjects. Both of them are blonde. The red light of her pointer hovers over the shorter one. “The anomaly can change its appearance as much as it likes, which makes it difficult to find. But this one,” she physically taps the projector screen. “Is just an ordinary human. He’s always going to look the same, which makes him much easier to track. Our source tells us the kid’s name is Flat Escardos. I have some of our team looking into him as we speak. Unfortunately, we can’t wait for them to get back to us. Our source has given us some time-sensitive information about their current location, so I need you to leave as soon as you can.”

The field agents in the briefing room, Sigma included, start gathering their supplies.

“Remember- the anomaly is capable of shape-shifting. It may change its appearance to match any of yours, so remember your secure phrases. But use them wisely! It won’t matter much if the anomaly learns them. And most of all, we are here to secure and contain anomalies. We don’t destroy them unless we absolutely have to. You should all be equipped with tranquilizer guns and darts, so only use real bullets if it shows a new, catastrophic ability that threatens mass destruction.”

In other words, don’t use them at all. It is an optimistic order, but an order nonetheless.

Sigma counts his bullets.

\--

They corner the anomaly off the side of an interstate. As promised, it is accompanied by a boy that looks nineteen but speaks much younger. Neither is eager to cooperate. The anomaly looks human enough, but when they draw their knife they move so fast that Sigma can hardly track them.

Davis goes down. Then Estrada. For a moment it looks like Liu might have them, but then they _multiply._ There are four of them. One drives its knife through the seams of her body armor. Another dives for Commander Patel. She hits it with a tranq, and it dissipates like air. The other three keep going.

Monsalud gets off a shot. A second disappears. Hawk takes down the third.

The anomaly is cornered, though they do not know it yet. Sigma lowers the barrel of his gun and takes a shot between their feet. They jump back and their heel catches on Estrada’s leg. Tukan jumps. She has them pinned before they can even think to recover. Hawk helps her relieve them of their knife.

Patel’s voice cracks through his comm, voicing the question that has been nagging at Sigma for nearly twenty minutes.

“ _Where is the kid?_ ”

And then everything goes sideways.

Hawk is gone.

Monsalud is gone.

Patel is gone.

They wink out faster than Sigma can track, though he does try. The world around Flat Escardos strobes through a hundred, a thousand different iterations in seconds.

Sigma flicks off the safety and takes aim. Flat, or the thing that looks like Flat, jumps across his scope as if he is a thousand places at once. Putting his vibration aside, the changing terrain and weather make it impossible to get a shot. There are only ten field agents left and dropping. The distortion spreads further and further, threatening Sigma’s hideout.

Tukan is struggling midair, the anomaly still pinned beneath her. They open their mouth.

And everything

Stops.

Sigma takes the shot.

\--

Later, much later, Watcher regards Sigma with both pride and concern. He still does not understand why they would bother.

“You could have run away. No one would have blamed you.” This morning Watcher’s hair falls down to his feet, and stone crackles over his left eye. It does not move when his right eye does. Sigma wonders if he can see through it.

“The mission was in danger of failing,” he explains instead of asking.

“You would have escaped with information. Ah, but don’t get me wrong. I think it was very brave of you, and it was precisely what you should have done to save the most people. I admire that.” He gestures to the cabinet to his right. “There is some Neosporin and bandages in there. You should take them. I know that you were not injured as badly as some of the others, but it would be a shame if your wounds got infected.”

Sigma takes the bandages.

“I’ve recommended you for a promotion. I don’t think that there should be any problems with it, so you should see your salary go up some time within the next month.” Watcher slips around the table and stretches up to string his hand through Sigma’s hair.

Sigma cannot feel anything, but he leans into it, just to be polite.

Watcher smiles as big as Sigma has ever seen.

He does not understand.

“You should go into town on your next day off. I think that they are showing a few classic comedies at the theater. Have you ever seen a movie?”

“No.”

“I’ll go with you. There’s also a new restaurant that I’ve wanted to try.” Watcher gestures to the door, hand obscured by a too-big sleeve. “Do me a favor and get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Sigma nods and slips out the door. He still does not know why Watcher sought him out, or why they treat him differently from the other soldiers, but he is not sure he minds.


	2. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigma is getting used to his new home. 
> 
> Watcher makes good on a promise.

Some habits are difficult to break no matter how destructive they become. Sigma spends his first two weeks at the Foundation in and out of his bunk as his stomach screams that he’s eaten too much too fast. Some of the soldiers laugh at him. They are the loud ones. The quiet ones watch with a sympathy he’s not sure he wants.

While he’s learned to give himself the time to chew, he cannot escape the compulsion completely. He finishes his breakfast long before his teammates and leaves the cafeteria.

He does not notice the person leaning beside the door until he clears his throat.

“It is your day off. Why are you eating here?” the stranger asks.

Sigma turns around. He has not seen the old Japanese man before. His clothing hardly matches the Foundation’s aesthetic, but his salt and pepper hair screams ‘researcher.’ Most soldiers do not survive that long.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Well?” Watcher just grazes Sigma’s height in this form.

“You said that we were going later,” Sigma reminds him.

Watcher does not seem appeased in the slightest. “There is a diner in town that serves much better food. If you’d asked me, I would have taken you earlier.”

“How would you know it’s better?”

Sigma intended an honest question, but the way Watcher flicks through his forehead suggests he thinks otherwise. His wooden shoes do not make a sound as he strides down the hallway. “We are leaving now. Grab your things and meet me at my office.”

\--

While he cannot wear it, the Foundation has provided Watcher with a badge. It says that he is a researcher, and the clearance levels listed on it are some of the highest Sigma’s ever seen. There is no picture. Watcher asks him to pick it up along with his wallet on their way to the front entrance.

“Can you drive a car?” Watcher asks with his eyes fixed forward.

Sigma is not sure how to answer, so he stays silent instead. 

“I’ve no doubt you can drive all sorts of military vehicles, and you seemed familiar with both the plane and the helicopter on your trip here. That is a bit surprising, considering that most of the armies you frequented were chronically undersupplied, but I suppose it isn’t impossible. Then is the roadblock a driver’s license?”

Until arriving at the Foundation, Sigma’s only form of identification was a collection of dead men’s dog tags. His badge gives him permission to operate a limited set of vehicles on Foundation property, but never outside. This was all explained to him in excruciating detail upon his arrival. He is still not sure what Watcher does for the Foundation, but it is not intake or training.

“It does not matter. We will get you one eventually. For now, I will ask one of the others to be our driver.”

Given the files he’s read and the things he’s seen, Sigma cannot imagine that the Foundation has many resources to spare on a day trip, but the moment Watcher states his name at the gate, they have a driver.

Endless piles of rocks and grass speed by. Sigma could take the opportunity to scan the scenery and try to figure out what country he is in. Instead, he watches Watcher. If Watcher’s intangibility was not obvious to start, the way he always asked Sigma to open doors and carry things for him was evidence enough. His wallet was and identification were in Sigma’s pocket, opposite his own batch of crumpled bills.

Maybe that is why Watcher glides several inches forward in his seat every time the car rolls to a stop and sinks back towards the trunk when their driver accelerates. Sigma tries to imagine what he’d see if not for the car.

Watcher glances over from time to time, catches him staring, and cocks an eyebrow. Still, he does not ask. Sigma wonders if he already knows.

It takes nearly an hour and a half before the buildings start in. The first is a house so far off the road that Sigma can see little more than its roof. Several more miles bring another house. Then another. Then another. The further they drive, the shorter the interval gets.

Then come the stores.

First is a gas station, old and rusty, but still bursting with life. Sigma cannot see through the windows- they are plastered with old advertisements for beer and cigarettes.

Then there is an old farming supply store that stretches on a full quarter mile. Then others. House after house, interwoven with store after store, as the buildings grow taller and the gaps narrower. Sigma cannot take his eyes away. He has fought in cities before, but none like this.

To call it a city would be a disservice in truth. It is a small town, with no more than two thousand residents, but he has never seen a place so bursting with life. Men, women, and children of all ages populate the streets. They sit in coffee shops, carry groceries, feed coins into parking meters, and laugh and wave at the others on the street.

The minute weight of Watcher’s presence at his side flickers. He looks over, and the seat is empty. The familiar pilot is sitting in the passenger seat. “Pull over right here.”

The car slides to a halt in front of a block of a building with a marquee advertising a marathon of classic comedies. Watcher twists around in her seat and grins. “Ready?”

Maybe, maybe not.

Sigma leaves the car and walks around to open Watcher’s door. He may not know if he is ready, but he thinks he is willing to try.

\--

“He may seem silly, but I heard that he was a real pain to work with. Always asking for a million takes, recasting leads, and even rebuilding sets.”

Sigma nods along to Watcher’s monologue, though he is hardly listening. The marathon was primarily British comedies released between 1900 and 1970. They’d screened them in more-or-less chronological order, with short breaks before each film.

He had never seen a movie before- had never had the chance. But Watcher showed him one wonder after another, each more elaborate than the last. Things he’d never lived and worlds he’d never seen echo through his mind, drowning out everything else. He places one foot in front of the next, but all he sees are steam engines and castle walls.

“Sigma?”

Watcher is grinning back at him, pleased as anything. He looks up. They are standing in front of a diner that drips 60s sentiment. She tilts her head to the door.

He pulls it open and is immediately confronted with the scent of frying food. An old man looks up from behind the counter. Wrinkles carve laugh-lines deep into his skin, and they dig deeper when he sees them. “Amelia! If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes.”

Watcher is still for a moment before she skips ahead, eyes bright. “Bill! It’s been _ages_! You’ve gotten old, huh?”

“And you haven’t aged a day,” he snorts. “Whadda they got in the water in that place you work? Bring me some next time.”

“Sure thing old man,” she laughs. “Though are you gonna show us our table? Don’t tell me you really _have_ gotten slow in your old age.”

“Yeah, yeah. I see that bratty attitude of yours hasn’t changed either.”

“Aw, you love me.”

“Shut your mouth. The wife’ll hear!”

‘Bill’ leads them on a torturously slow journey to a corner booth. Sigma trails behind, eyes fixed on the bob of Watcher’s hair as she trades stories back and forth with a man that looks three times her age. Sigma has no idea how old Watcher is, but he is starting to think that the number is higher than he’d ever imagined.

Without reason to speak, Sigma keeps his presence as small as possible. He slides into the booth and keeps his eyes on the menu set in front of him. There are so many options that he hardly knows where to start. He has always eaten what was given to him, even in the cafeteria. His eyes drift uselessly over the listings, while Watcher and Bill meander through conversation.

“So, you’re having the usual?”

“Nah, not today.” Watcher slaps her hand down on the menu. It makes no sound and sinks half an inch into the table before bouncing back out. “Just dragging my cute subordinate out for a meal. Not that hungry myself.”

“Just like your old boss,” Bill admonishes with a shake of his head. “Where is ol’ Watcher anyway? He finally kick the bucket?”

Sigma does not bother hiding his interest.

Watcher seems to notice. She gives him a thin smile before looking back at her old friend. “Yup. Probably ten, fifteen years back. He was getting up there in the years, you know? No offense, old-timer.” Bill snorts. “I got his old job, so I’m really raking in the cash now. Figured I’d carry on the tradition when I got my own protégé.” She jerks her thumb at Sigma.

Bill leans in over the table, eyes narrow. “You sure you’re old enough to be workin’ there, kid?”

While the question is not a new one, Sigma still does not know how to respond. He nods and hopes that it is enough.

It isn’t. Bill grunts and cracks his neck. “Not much of a talker, is he?”

“He’s a little shy, but I figure I’ll drag him out of his shell eventually,” Watcher confirms. “His name’s Sigma.”

“Strange name, just like your old boss,” Bill sighs. “Swear, this place attracts all the weirdos.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Watcher ribs.

“Well, I’ll give you two some time to pick. Try not to scare the kid off in the meantime, Amelia!”

“Pretty sure that’s my line, Bill!”

He walks back to the front, delayed by the scratch of his joints.

Watcher goes quiet, hands hovering around her copy of the menu. She looks up at Sigma. He knows that if he asks, she’ll answer. He doesn’t. He thinks she looks disappointed.

\--

The ride back to the Foundation is spent in neutral silence. Sigma keeps his eyes fixed out the window, and Watcher tries and fails to engage their driver in conversation. She keeps looking back at him as if she is concerned.

Sigma does not know why she cares. No matter her assurances in the past, he does not know why she brought him here, much less invited him on an outing like this. The easiest explanation for the latter is that she wanted to see the movie and speak to the man at the diner but was not able to do either on her own. The amount of the trip that she’d spent sneaking glances at his face suggests otherwise.

When the car rolls to a stop in the Foundation’s garage, Watcher hops through the door in the most blatant display of intangibility Sigma’s ever seen. He follows her out, take-away box clutched awkwardly in both hands. At least it gives him something to do. The squirming discomfort of her disappointment stews in his mind.

Sigma does not know why _he_ cares.

He does not realize that he has been lingering just outside the car until Watcher calls after him. She is staring again. He falls into step beside her.

“Thank you for coming with me today. It was nice to have a little company.”

Sigma inclines his head the slightest bit. They twist through the hallways, up, down, and around on the way to Watcher’s office. Watcher’s time skips halfway through the journey from the aviator to the boy with wings. The wax feathers twisting from his torso dip through the ceiling as he walks.

When they arrive back at the office, Watcher yawns and leans back against his desk while Sigma stores his wallet and identification in their respective drawers. Despite how busy he must be, Watcher’s office is mostly empty. His drawers hold some paper files, but each page is separated by several inches. After one disturbing incident, Sigma’s learned that he read them by sticking his head through the drawers. There is a computer on his desk as well. It is voice activated. Sometimes when Sigma waits for Watcher’s permission to enter, he can hear him speaking to it.

There is evidence of art too, propped up high on the shelves bolted to the walls. Towards the back of the office there are two small figures carved from stone. They are well-kept, but soft around the edges from wear. Moving closer to the door are framed paintings in various states of age. On the closest shelf are two photographs. One is in black and white, while the other is in faded color.

Every piece, be it carved or shot, depicts only one person. All of them look familiar. Sigma wonders how he did not notice them before.

“Interested?” Watcher asks from his perch.

Sigma shrugs.

This time Watcher does not look disappointed. He leans back until he is staring at the pitted paneling of the ceiling. “I’ll fill you in eventually. We have plenty of time. You should get back to enjoying your day off.”

Sigma nods. He closes the door behind him on his way out.

\--

There are others like Sigma at the Foundation. They walk the halls without looking, drifting like ghosts from space to space. Though badges dangle from their pockets, they never seem to know why they are there.

One of them is a girl with hair too light for her age. She does not wear any uniform that he can recognize, and she has a cage hooked to her belt. He sees her most evenings in the cafeteria.

The soldiers sit together. They’ve all seen things no human should see and survived things that cannot be survived. There is a kind of comfort in company. The researchers are the same. Their conversations are constricted by black bars on paper, but they seem happy in their circles regardless.

The girl, like Sigma, takes a table to herself.

This commonality means that Sigma is not surprised to see her leaving Watcher’s office as he arrives. He watches her go. The cage taps against her leg. He thinks he can hear a distant string of swears.

“Curious?”

Sigma turns to find Watcher behind him. Today he is tall and muscular, and his smirk reminds Sigma of their first meeting on the battlefield.

Sigma considers his options. He takes the leap. Nods.

Watcher laughs. “Good for you! She’s been with the Foundation for three or four years now. She’s responsible for the containment of that thing on her hip, but she’s not exactly a researcher. Guess you could call her a ‘containment specialist’ or something. Got transferred here around the time you started. You should try talking to her sometime.”

“Why?”

The look Watcher gives him is not quite disappointment. It seems more like resignation. He shrugs his shoulders and gestures to the door. “No reason. I just figure you two’d get along. Now c’mon. That phone call’s starting in fifteen, and I’m gonna need your help with the files.”

Sigma walks in. He does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can have some hints of lore, even if Sigma isn't interested.


	3. REM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigma is not used to dreams.

Before arriving at the Foundation, Sigma did not sleep long enough to invite dreams.

On the rare occasions that he was between battlefields and let exhaustion catch up with him, he would wake with vague impressions of light and sound. Here in the Foundation, they schedule his time in his too-soft bed. Old habits die hard. He takes his sleep for minutes at a time when he first arrives. But as the months crawl by, his unconscious mind becomes complacent.

Sigma’s first-born dreams are hesitant. They crawl across his mind in cowering forms. Snippets of waking. Shooting. Walking down the hall. Hardly anything to remember when he wakes, save for the novelty of it all.

And then he meets 9664. His sleep after reality first fails him is fraught with bright lights and flashing colors. Sounds roar in his ears, growing louder and louder until he wrenches himself awake. He does not know if he has screamed. None of the others are looking, but the ones who’d come back alive whimper and thrash among the empty beds. He pulls the covers back over his head and tries to sleep.

It does not happen every night. Most nights he cannot remember dreaming at all. Some, he awakens from another infinite walk through endless halls. But rare nights…

Sigma is quiet, but he is not stupid. His life has long depended on noticing patterns others don’t. So when his second, third, and fourth encounters with 9664 are accompanied by dreams of screaming color, it does not escape him.

He learns to brace himself. When he expects them, the dreams are not as loud. They do not ring in his eyes and ears long after he wakes. And that is good. Distractions mean danger. Danger means death. That much does not change no matter where he sleeps.

\--

The monitor in Watcher’s office flashes in the dark. The contrast hurts Sigma’s eyes. Two people stand out in pixels. Both wear orange jumpsuits. One, short and blonde and all too familiar, the other tall and thin and a distant face in the crowd.

Watcher sinks further back into his chair, seemingly forgetting its depth. He is looking at the screen but he is not.

The tall stranger is yelling, while the monster that erased forty of Sigma’s companions dangles in his grip. The audio feed crackles. The 9664 slumps in the man’s arms. The danger has passed without a bullet fired.

Watcher presses a whistle through his rotten teeth. “Well,” he says, turning to Sigma, “Would you look at that.”

\--

The shrieking noise and violent color greet Sigma when he closes his eyes. He’d known it was coming. While he had not had contact with 9664 that day (at Watcher’s insistence), he’d felt him through the walls. The danger was over, but residue lingered everywhere he went.

Despite the familiar disaster, this dream feels different. The edges are sharper. The sounds clearer. In this place Sigma has no eyes, but he strains his mind to pull everything into focus. It is a struggle, even in the dream. Clarity slips through his fingers like grasping water. He persists.

Then the dream shudders into place and he can  _ see _ . Or something like seeing.

Billions upon trillions of scenes surround him in layer after layer of concentric globes, and he can see  _ all _ of them. He does not have to turn his head to see the woman buying groceries behind him, nor does he have to move his eyes to watch himself thrash through a fitful sleep in the dorms.

Somewhere at sea, a baby is crying.

Somewhere, towers of ice crash into the ocean.

Somewhere in a city, a boy feeds meat into a frying pan.

Somewhere, a bird rips into a rotting corpse.

Somewhere in a deep, dark room, someone etches symbols into paper.

All of it, everything, bleeds into itself. A movie of the entire earth and everything on it, spinning endlessly around him. Sigma has no eyes to close. No ears to cover. No mouth to speak. Overwhelmed, he cannot even break for consciousness.

Just when he thinks himself lost, he hears a voice he knows say a name he’s heard. He reaches out. Grabs on. Focuses on that voice with everything he has and pulls it towards him, just as he’d pulled the world into focus.

It works.

The omnipresent visions contract, closing in to a human range of vision. Trillions of little moments flash around the edges, but they are ghosts of their prior prominence. Now there is only one scene and it is everything.

Snow-stained stone cuts bars through a sky so clear it burns. The ocean sprints to the horizon beyond the cut of verdant cliffs. In the center, framed against contrasting blue, is a boy. His eyes are emerald amber, and his scars are stone. The sounds he makes are foreign, but Sigma understands the thoughts like he can read them. He has seen this boy before. He is one of the many faces Watcher wears.

“… am sure. My children are old enough to fend for themselves. Really, I’m sure they’ll be relieved to have me out of their hair.” There’s a kind of fond exasperation in the boy’s tone. “My only concern is for you. With me gone, who will you haunt?”

Sigma’s arm moves without his intent. It brushes across a thicket of wax feathers arching up and around his chest. “I’m sure I’ll work something out.” He does not sound sure. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell your children? Any last words of wisdom?”

The boy scoffs. “No. I finished teaching them everything I could a very long time ago. They don’t need to hear anything more out of me.”

“Epione, then? Or Aristodama?”

“No. Absolutely not. Do you remember how they reacted when they saw me like this?” He taps the film of stone that eclipses his face. “They will try to rip you apart. When hands do not suffice, they will come at you with words. I’d rather spare you the trouble.”

The man-that-is-not-Sigma smiles through his face. “Your medicine, then? You should still have a little left. Would you like to fit in a little more hubris before they punish you?”

“Absolutely not.” The boy turns out to the sea. There is a ship on the horizon. Sigma knows he could see every grain of every plank that composes it if he wishes, but he does not dare lose his tenuous grasp on this vision. “Tell Panacea where I’ve hidden it. I trust her judgment. Though, ah, do warn her of what may happen if she decides to use it.”

“And if she uses it to cure you?”

Though he is facing away, Sigma can still see the way he wrinkles his nose. The reminder of his expanded perspective is dizzying.

“She knows better than that. It would be a waste.”

“A waste?”

The boy looks back over his shoulder. “A waste,” he confirms. “I am a doctor who has cured death. Now that I have conquered the world’s gravest illness, what else is there for me to do? There are many others who have more to contribute. I am not one of them.”

“And if I think you’re wrong?”

He rolls his eyes and straightens his robes. “Then finish things in my stead. You’re welcome to my face, as well as my reputation. You’ve earned that right.”

“Father!”

The boy turns, looking past Sigma to the back rooms of the building. A woman in bloodstained robes rushes to them. She seems out of breath, but she is smiling. “Hippolytus has awoken. His wounds are healed as well!” She looks like the boy in many ways, down to the fire in her eyes. “Would you like to come see him?”

“Thank you Iaso.” The boy’s eyes crinkle. “But I am fine. I am sure that he is in good hands. But he is still in the early stages of the resurrection process, and his health is delicate. I would like you to stay with him until he is stable.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Ah,” the boy looks to Sigma and his eyebrows go up. “Would you mind accompanying her, Watcher? I know that you were interested in the process. This is a good chance to see the medicine in action.”

Sigma- Watcher- wrinkles his brow. “Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own?”

There is a moment of silence, but it is not tension. It is the quiet of a thousand hours spent in company. The boy steps out onto the grassy cliff. He looks small, framed against the sea and sky. “You still doubt me after so many years? Should I be insulted?”

Watcher laughs, and Sigma can feel it shake through him. “You’re insufferable as always. I guess you really will be fine.”

“I’ve been told that I am an excellent student,” the boy counters. “Now hurry up. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Sigma cannot feel the stone under Watcher’s feet. There is no friction when he walks, nor is there heat, or cold, or any indication he is really there. But there is a sore in his chest that will not stop aching. “If you’re sure. It was a pleasure working with you, Asclepius.”

“And you too,” Asclepius groans. “Stop stalling.”

Partings sound like thunder and smell like ozone.

Iaso screams and runs outside.

Sigma cannot move. As he rises through sleep like a bubble through water, he can feel something slam through Watcher. It knocks him clear. He bursts awake, soaked in sweat and breathing hard.

\--

The scent of charred flesh burns Sigma’s nose through the day.

The girl with the cage who shares his table watches him, and he wonders if she can see it. When he leaves her to her silence, grating laughter rings from her hip.

Here, deep in layers of concrete, Sigma cannot see the sun set, but he can feel it in his bones. The siren call of sleep with its echo of dreams drapes over him like a shroud. He lets his feet carry him through the hallways he’s allowed. There are more lately. Every week brings authorizations, always presented in the form of a new pile of papers on Watcher’s desk.

When he comes back to himself, he is not surprised to find himself in front of Watcher’s door. He could turn back and go to his bunk. No one would fault him. But if he is here, then Watcher already knows. He does not bother to knock.

When he opens the door, charred skin is momentarily replaced with the scent of sea breeze. He thinks he sees blue blanketing the room. But it ends in a moment, and his senses are clear.

Watcher glances up, as if he did not know Sigma was coming. It is the first time he’s seen him surprised. “Sigma. Hello. What brings you here?”

“…Nothing.” He walks in and closes the door behind him.

Watcher blinks, soft and slow, like he’s only just awoken. Sigma wonders if he’d been behind the door before he opened it.

“You’re Watcher,” Sigma says, more to confirm than ask.

Watcher seems confused. “Yes?”

“Asclepius is dead.”

Realization seems to strike. Sigma expects the tang of lightning in the air. It never comes. Watcher’s smile turns soft and oh-so-reminiscent of the strange boy from Sigma’s dream. “You’re taking to this rather fast. I wonder if it’s because…” he trails off into a hum. “Are you alright? I’ve heard the first few times can be a little… overwhelming.”

It is another invitation that Sigma will not take. He just nods. He is fine. Dreams can only haunt him while he sleeps.

Watcher reaches out to press a palm to his forehead; a habit no doubt from another time, place, and person. “If it starts to bother you, come see me.” And then he stands up from his chair and moves to the cabinet where he keeps his medical supplies. He cannot use them himself. The motion is more a reminder for Sigma than an offer of assistance. “Asclepius may be gone, but some pieces remain.”

“I can’t bring back the dead.”

Watcher grins that grin that is not theirs. “I never asked you to.”

Sigma does not understand. He doubts he ever will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP INCAPABLE OF TAKING A BREAK LET'S GO


	4. Biscuits and Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Foundation receives a visit from a very unwelcome guest. Watcher asks Sigma to show them the door.

Early on in his tenure at the Foundation, Watcher gives Sigma an invitation.

Months wear away at his excuses, but Sigma holds out for nearly a year. Watcher’s insistence overcomes his stubbornness in spring, when the air conditioning starts straining against the rising heat. Watcher smiles wide enough to strain their face when he accepts their invitation.

It is a standing date. Once a week, usually Saturdays, they meet for tea. Watcher cannot provide it of course. They hover around the cafeteria and offer advice as Sigma works in silence.

It is not a complicated process. There is hot water by the coffee and a host of tea bags nearby.

Watcher insists that he make two cups- one for each of them. He carries them back to Watcher’s office where they direct him to fetch a packet of biscuits from the top drawer of their filing cabinet, And then they sit across from one-another, and Watcher talks and talks and talks as their tea goes cold. Sigma can hardly hear them. No matter how far removed he is from the scarcity of yesteryear, the waste is difficult to fathom. 

He is staring at the waning steam rising from Watcher’s cup when Watcher clears his throat. “How are you feeling? Are you injured? Tired?”

It is not unusual for Watcher to ask after Sigma’s health, but it _is_ unusual for them to do so with this face. When they adopt Asclepius’s appearance, they retain his paternal instincts. The boy with the wax wings makes them brash. ‘Amelia’ and the muscular soldier make them boisterous but kind. The old man with the peg leg brings a sadistic sense of humor.

Today Watcher is the old man in the tattered yukata. Sigma knows he is not asking for concern or manners. “I am fit for duty,” he says, because he is.

Watcher nods. “An anomaly will attack the facility in just under an hour. It will likely cause significant damage to the premises. There may be a simultaneous containment breach. I would like you to join Mobile Task Force Tau-1 to deal with the threat. I have already spoken with their commander. He has agreed to have you temporarily.”

Sigma is no stranger to orders, but this is the first time that Watcher has given them directly. He lowers his tea to the table. “What kind of anomaly?”

Watcher shakes his head. “It is large,” he says, “And it is leaving power outages in its wake. It is coming from the east. I do not know anything else.” His voice drops lower. A notification rings from his computer, and his gaze drifts towards it before sliding back. “There is a real possibility that you will die. It would be very inconvenient for me if you did so. If you think that you cannot handle it, tell me now and I will rescind your orders.”

Sigma has seen death many times. He has never refused an order.

_(But there is something nagging at him._

_A little voice suggesting that maybe, just maybe he should sit this out._

_He hardly recognizes it as his own, so he ignores it.)_

\--

Mobile Task Force Tau-1, “Chains of Heaven,” is not new to Sigma. He’s never met any of its members, but he’s heard whispers of their existence in the lunch line. The MTFs in general are things of legend. They are the top of the top- the elite of the elite. They are the ones who survived _several_ promotions. The soldiers in Sigma’s dorm aspire to join their ranks.

MTF Tau-1, while respected, is rarely anyone’s goal. They are the best. Being the best means trouble: The Foundation reserves them for the most dangerous threats. Their mortality rate is high for their reputation, and Many of Sigma’s fellow soldiers consider their senior members just as inhuman as the things they contain.

Their commander is the worst offender. He does not _act_ human, they say, and the SCP he’s requisitioned to serve as his primary weapon responds just a little _too_ well to his orders.

Gilgamesh is not as abrasive in person as the rumors suggest, though it is a close thing. He takes one look at Sigma, smirks, and turns back to his squad. His speech is not fit for the task. He sounds more like the kings Sigma has seen in movies than a commander. He offers no direct orders or encouragement, but his subordinates cheer. Sigma stands to the side and tries to understand.

There is a man to his right who is hanging back from the crowd. He looks just as out of place as Sigma, but he seems more impressed than dismayed. When Gilgamesh finishes his speech, he turns to Sigma.

“He really is just as amazing as they said! No wonder his squad is so impressive. I still can’t believe they picked me to be a part of it! Did you just get assigned too?”

Technically yes, technically no. Sigma does not now how to respond.

The man does not give him a chance.

“My name’s Richard, by the way. Just got transferred from MTF Omicron-12. Where were you?”

“If you have time to talk, you have time to prepare.” Gilgamesh snaps from the front.

Sigma returns to ensuring that his body armor is properly fit, while Richard laughs and begins fiddling with his own equipment. He has a sword, Sigma notes. A strange choice of weapon, but he’s seen stranger over these past few months. For example, Commander Gilgamesh has something that looks like a cross between a knife and a puzzle hanging from his belt. Though he’s murdered many people with many things, Sigma has no idea how it would serve as a weapon.

There is not long until he will find out. The building shakes. The lights flicker.

Manic smiles spread across Gilgamesh and Richard’s faces. Sigma checks his gun one last time.

\--

The monster is made of lightning, and bullets mean nothing. Its tail cracks out and the chicken wire crumples like floss. The alarm stopped sounding long ago, and it is as much a relief as it is a warning. Sigma darts into a guard station to get his bearings. He has a knife, but metal against this monster seems like a death sentence.

That has not stopped Richard. He swings his sword with relentless courage and the beast screams with either rage or terror. Sigma is not so optimistic as to think the latter.

Gilgamesh is laughing.

Sigma leans out, levels his gun with the base of the thing’s spine, and fires. It crackles but does not flinch. Its enormous claws puncture the outside wall and dig in deep, and the electric fence sputters in a visible show of sparks before settling. The thing grows bigger. The lights in the guard station blink out. He can feel the passing electricity prick the hairs on his arms.

Sigma looks around the room for another weapon. There are guns of course. Most are semi-automatics and side-arms. There are few unidentifiable objects with cryptic runes carved across them are secreted inside a case of glass. He does not know what they do or how to use them, so he ignores them. 

The building shakes.

Sigma’s ears ring.

It takes him a moment before he recognizes the sound as a scream.

With speed born of a lifetime’s experience, he takes a quick look outside. He has to look again to confirm what he sees.

The monster is the size of a large transport truck now. Several men and women from the task force lay dead or something like it.

But Gilgamesh is smiling.

The thing is wrapped in chains and its screams are struggles as its body chips away from their force. It wrenches its arm away from its body, the chains wrap tighter, clogging up its joints. It howls. Sigma emerges from his hiding place, pistol secure in both hands.

Gilgamesh’s deep red eyes shift to him and back. They reflect the gold of the links. “Go,” he says to the soldiers still standing.

Sigma hardly needs to be told. This may be their only chance. The monster has a halo set with spikes that orbit its axis. He focuses in on its lazy spin and raises his gun.

The thing lets out an unearthly scream. Sigma presses the heels of his palms to his ears, and catches several dropping their weapons to block out the noise. Golden light clouds out his vision, and for a terrifying moment all he has are touch and smell.

The light fades.

His eyes spot.

He hears a soft apology in a voice that could be man or woman.

“Down!”

There’s a fear in Gilgamesh’s voice Sigma cannot register. He throws himself to the ground, and the rush of air and death that brushes above him tells him everything he needs to know: The monster is free.

Half blind and half deaf, he crawls for some form of cover. Gilgamesh is barking orders. Richard is yelling back affirmatives, though their voices are tense as a strung bow. Heavy footsteps rattle towards the main compound. The com in Sigma’s ear allows him one beep of distress before dying, so he plucks it out of his ear and shoves it in his pocket.

There are still several magazines of bullets among his supplies, but bullets have proven ineffective. He has no weapons at all. But the thing is screaming, and Gilgamesh is yelling, and he can see the reinforced windows of the cafeteria from here.

The monster’s claws smash through the loading bay. The metal shrieks before giving way. Sparks from friction and wires crackle against its claws. Its body pulses. It grows. He staggers to his feet and readies his gun. His bullet pings off the doors next to the thing’s face. It turns to the spark like a plant to sun, and follows through, looking for the source, and finding him. Sigma grits his teeth and sets his feet in the ground. This is another glow of gold behind him and a flood of weapons crash past him. They strike the monster. Its shell cracks. Its countless eyes snap away from him.

That will work.

He rushes in, keeping his head low. An axe lays on the ground, a little closer than the rest of the detritus. He snatches it up on the way. Its weight is unsteady in his hand- more top-heavy than the guns he’s used to wielding. There is a gap in the armor behind the monster’s knee.

Sigma adjusts his grip, wrenches his arm back, and swings.

The blade embeds itself deep in the stone. The monster howls.

He tries to pull the blade free only once, but it is wedged in deep. Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear Richard screaming from him to get back. He turns on his heel. Pushes off the ground and-

\--

It is dark.

\--

It is dark.

\--

It is dark.

\--

“Boy? Can you hear me?”

It is dark.

\--

“Sigma?”

It is dark.

\--

“What did you do?”

“That isn’t really your business, now is it?”

It is dim.

\--

“…Was a little reckless, I admit, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Besides, it all worked out in the end!”

When Sigma cracks his eyes open, it does not feel like waking. Light floods his vision, and he instantly shuts them, but now that he’s awake, the fluorescent bulbs burn red through his eyelids.

Light bulbs.

Electricity.

The power is on. He turns his attention to his ears, but he does not hear the shriek of the beast, or the beat of its steps. There is no gunfire. No screaming. No strange hums he’s come to associate with whatever weapon Gilgamesh wields. He opens his eyes, micron by micron.

Watcher immediately encompasses his entire range of vision. He has the hard face of the solider Sigma’d first met, and his hair drapes down around them, blocking out some of the light. “You’re awake! Good. It’s been hell the past week without you. I tried to hire a new assistant, but they’re being _really_ stubborn about it.”

Closing his eyes hurts just as much as opening them. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning to you too, Sleeping Beauty!” Watcher’s hand rushes right through his head, in an overzealous attempt at ruffling his hair. “Gilgamesh sent one of his people by earlier to check on you. I think he’s taken a real shine to you- he even left you a gift!”

Everything is moving too fast. Sigma lifts his arms and brings his hands to his face, heedless of how they pass through Watcher’s body. Both are there. He wiggles his fingers and his toes. Sensation is creeping back into his body. Outside of a bone-deep ache, he does not feel any different from normal, but he recognizes the smell of antiseptic. “Why?”

“You did good,” Watcher says. He leans back a bit, revealing the rest of the medical wing. Sigma catches a quick glimpse of Dr. Velvet as he slips out the door. “You took out one of its legs, which let the MTF take it down and contain it. Unfortunately, you got pummeled in the process. It was touch-and-go for a bit there, so I’m glad to see you’re up.”

“What did you do?”

Watcher looks surprised. Then he breaks into a grin that outshines all the lights in the room. It hurts to look at, so Sigma turns away. “Well, aren’t you curious today! Let’s just say I knew the right person to ask. Took a lot of convincing, but this is the Foundation: You can find just about anything if you know where to look.”

For all his words, Sigma knows that Watcher is not telling him much. He feels that unfamiliar curiosity building up again, but when he opens his eyes, they settle on a package sitting on his bedside table, and his interest redirects. “What is that?”

“That?” Watcher follows his gaze and grins. “Gilgamesh’s present. He doesn’t give stuff away to just anyone. I don’t know what you did, but it looks like you’re on his good side.”

Sigma wriggles upright and pulls the package into his lap. It feels strange. No one has ever given him a gift before. He runs his fingers over the wrapping.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“I…”

“I’d open it if I were you. He’ll get mad if he finds out that he filled out all that paperwork for nothing.”

Sigma nods. The wrapping paper is gorgeous, red and blue encrusted with gold. He tries to pick away at the tape to slip out the box inside, but Watcher keeps egging him and egging him until he resigns himself to ripping it apart.

Inside is a crossbow. It looks old but well-preserved, almost as if someone had snatched it out of time to bring it there. Its wood is red like blood, and it is accompanied by a set of bolts with ruby tips. He lifts it from its box. It is no heavier than his pistol but fits his grip just as well.

Watcher sighs out contentment. “It suits you, doesn’t it?”

Maybe, maybe not. But it feels right.

“You should use that alongside your gun from now on. I think it will serve you well.”

He nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW, did I have trouble writing this for some reason.   
> Probably the last chapter I'm writing here for a while, so I can focus on other fics.


	5. Sendoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more days before the team leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the end of 9664, but before the end of the sequel if we ever write that.

The scent of grease and pancakes hangs heavy in the air, to the point that Sigma feels like he is wading through it whenever he walks through the doors. Watcher’s insubstantial presence does nothing to shield him from the sensory onslaught. Still, at this point, Sigma would consider himself used to it.

Bill slaps his newspaper on the counter and limps around the counter, showing off all his fillings in a filthy smile. “Well if it ain’t my favorite lady and her young man! Been ages, Amelia!”

Watcher hurls her arms into the air, pulling her bomber jacket up like a pair of wings. “So you’re still breathing! Figure you would’ve retired by now.”

“If I retire who’s gonna make those shitty eggs you like?”

Amelia cackles and follows the unsteady sweep of Bill’s arm down the aisle. Sigma lingers a moment. Visits to the diner are not rare, but they are not common either. The trip to town takes more time than either Watcher or Sigma has, and he is more than happy with the cafeteria food. It is not good, per-say, but it is nutritious and lacks the mold and dirt he’d overlooked in his younger years, and that is all he has ever wanted. 

He still feels out of place among the vinyl booths. People like him do not belong in places like this. 

Bill looks up from the menus he’s fishing out of his podium and raises an eyebrow. “You okay there, son?” 

‘Son.’ ‘Boy.’ More words that don’t belong to him. 

Sigma nods and follows Watcher’s trail. 

Whether through Bill’s wishes or her own whims, she has taken the same booth he’d assigned them on their first visit. A tune he thinks he knows tumbles from her lips, and it occurs to him that he hardly knew music before he met her. He sits down. Neither of them speaks until Bill leaves them with the laminated menus. 

“So what are you getting?” Watcher leans over his menu, ignoring the one Bill’d laid out for her. 

Sigma bends the paper in his hands, examining the weight more than the contents. “You said,” he hesitates. This behavior was never his, but he has become very good at stealing it lately. “You said you knew my mother.” 

Watcher hums, and the red fall of her hair obscures the breakfast options for just a moment before she tucks it back behind her ear. “Maiya Hisau,” she says. “Or, at least, that was the name she was going by when I picked her up.” She takes another second before pulling away. “Are you getting a milkshake? You’re getting a milkshake. Bill! Sigma wants a chocolate shake!” 

Sigma lets her. He does not need the comfort sugar and syrup provide, but he thinks that she does on some level. He allows her to catch her breath before he taps his finger against his bundle of silverware. The paper napkin muffles the bulk of the noise, and Watcher is still looking at the menu, but he knows she sees. She clears her throat and shakes the curls out of her hair. “She was a lot like you. She was quiet and serious and very good at her job. She could shoot a fly out of the air just like that!” Watcher mocks gunfire with her finger and thumb. “Real markswoman. I’d say it ran in the blood, but it was probably more about upbringing.” 

“Her too,” Sigma says. The sound of gunfire and drone strikes pounds in his hindbrain. 

“Her too. Or maybe I should say ‘her first’ or ‘she’s why.’ Though I wouldn’t say she wanted you to grow up like that.” 

Rattling pots and pans swallow the silence clogging Sigma’s mouth. He lowers his hand to the holster on his side and pops the button open, clicks it closed, and pops it open again to a beat he thought he’d forgotten. “She talked about me?” he manages. 

“Not often,” Watcher says, “And only once to me directly. I got the sense she didn’t like talking about it, but that she thought of you a lot.” 

Sigma does not know what to say. He’d never...

“She asked me where to find you.” Watcher raises her hand and waves at Bill. He waves back, snapping his paper back and forth through the air.

“What did you tell her?” 

Bill cracks his back when he stands and winces the same way he always does. He grabs a well-worn pad of paper and starts making his slow way to the table. 

Watcher sinks back into the cushioning behind her and tilts her head at the ceiling. “I told her you were adopted by some family somewhere.” 

Small mercies. 

Sigma never knew his mother, but he has a feeling that is what she wanted to hear. 

“So kids, what’s it gonna be?” Bill cuts in. He is tapping the end of his ballpoint pen on his notepad without any recognizable rhythm. 

“I ain’t a kid,” Watcher laughs, “But I’m not eating today. Just get me a coffee.” 

“Swear, you’re gonna waste away,” Bill laments. Watcher shakes her head. 

All eyes turn to Sigma. He remembers the taste of the hamburger she’d recommended the first time they were here. It was good and warm and filled his stomach, and Bill had laughed and called him a ‘chip off the old block.’ He’d called it ‘the usual.’ In their subsequent visits, Sigma had continued to order ‘the usual.’ One hamburger, medium-rare, with a side of sweet potato fries. 

Bill and Watcher always wait for him anyway. 

“A bacon omelette,” he says. “With toast on the side.” 

Bill scribbles something on his notepad and stuffs it back into his apron. “Sure thing, kid. I’ll have it right out.” 

Sigma breathes in and looks back at Watcher. She has her knuckles tucked under her chin, and she is grinning so wide that it _has_ to hurt. “Oh nothing, it’s nothing,” she says before he has the chance to ask. He thinks that he understands regardless. Sigma may have never met his mother, but he has a meddlesome parent all the same. 

There is a question the others have been begging him to ask for months now. 9664 has been the most direct, but Dr. Velvet, Gray, and even Watcher herself have been stamping their own curiosity into him until it ignited his own. He closes his eyes. When he opens them Watcher’s smile is subdued. She holds out her hand, palm up, waiting for his words. 

“My- Maiya,” it sounds better that way, “There aren’t any pictures of anyone who looks like me in your office. Was she..” He is not sure how to phrase the rest. 

Watcher shakes her head, and Sigma finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if her sight extends into his head. “I won’t deny that I took a bit of an interest in her, but not in the way I have with you.” Her eyes are fever-bright, crackling in the silence, and Sigma steels himself against what feels like the full attention of the universe. 

He is grateful, for once, that he has the words of his acquaintances to fall back on even if they do not fit quite right. “What are you doing to me?” 

Bill chooses that moment to break into their conversation, omelette first. “Here ya go, kid. You sure you don’t want anything else ‘Melia?” 

“This is enough for me,” Watcher says over her cup of coffee. Her face is directed at Bill, but Sigma can feel her watching him. “Any word on that milkshake?”

“Swear you never change.” 

“And you’ve got more wrinkles every time I see you.” 

Bill throws up his hands as he walks away. 

Watcher slips back into their conversation, flicking her wrist from the coffee to Sigma. He takes the hint and the mug. 

“9664 isn’t all wrong, but they’re not all right about it either. Sure, you’re changing since you’re with me, but it isn’t as dramatic as they implied. At least, not on your end. You aren’t going to become omniscient, or gain the ability to bend the world to your will. I’m just...” She rolls her wrist, “Overlapping our existences a little.” 

“Which means?” 

“You’re so inquisitive lately,” Watcher says with a note of approval. “Eat. I’ll stop dancing around things. Promise.” 

Sigma cuts out a bite of his omelette without taking his eyes from her for a second. 

Watcher nods. “As you have probably guessed, this is not what I look like.” 

“I’d gathered.”

“I’m actually pretty large. Fact of the matter is that you’re sitting ‘inside’ me right now.” 

Sigma takes another bite of his omelette. 

“There’s a lot of truth in what they say in your training. If you spend too much time around anomalies, there can be some interesting consequences. Though I’m not sure that I like being called an anomaly myself. Anyway, it’s not like I’m making you immortal or giving you a weird disease or brainwashing you or anything like that. If anything, you’re changing _me_.” 

“You can use my face after I die.” 

Watcher seems surprised, though the way she sighs tells him that he is at least partially correct. “It normally takes a few more years to convince people,” she says. “But I guess you don’t have much of a sense of self or a life outside of the Foundation.” 

Both are true. 

The omelette is, at least, delicious. 

“It isn’t just your face,” Watcher continues. “Your knowledge, your experience, the little instincts you didn’t even know you had… I’m taking all of it. Just watching can tell me a lot, but experience’s pretty hard to come by when you’re, well,” She swings her hand through the table. “Anyway. It isn’t like I don’t have warriors in my roster, but they’re all pretty dated.” 

Sigma thinks of the boisterous man and the old samurai. He looks down at his reflection, unsteady on the surface of Watcher’s coffee. “I can fire a gun,” he concedes, “but so can almost anyone else at the Foundation. I’m not a warrior. There are so many others that-” 

Watcher’s gaze is wide and vast, and for the first time he feels the screaming colors outside of dreams. ‘Amelia’ is not looking at him. She is staring out the window. But the thing-that-is-Watcher- The Watcher that 9664 can see- is bearing down on him like a storm. “You’ve got this all wrong, Sigma. You’re asking ‘why me? Why did you pick me? You think there are a lot of people out there more deserving of this shitty diner food and those cardboard bunks back at the barracks.” There is a grave sort of whimsy in her tone, and she leans in like a child imparting a great secret. “I care about you, Sigma. I do. Which is why I hate to tell you that not a single one of them would envy your position.” 

\--

A great fall.

A lightning strike. 

Solitude.

Suffocation. 

And, most recently, a plane crash. 

None of Watcher’s charges die of old age. Many brush against mortality again and again until it catches them and holds them fast. He has already survived more than his share of fatal encounters, most at the mercy of 9664 or the conspiracy surrounding them. 

Though Watcher has taken many faces during Sigma’s tenure in the Foundation, they’d always made the same expression when giving him his next mission: An ambivalent mess of trust and anticipation. 

Some day in the future, they will make that expression using Sigma’s face. 

He will not be there to see it, so he supposes it does not matter.

\---

No matter how many times it has been cleaned, 9664’s containment cell still has the slightest scent of iron. Sigma has not fired any of the bullets embedded in these walls, but he’s borne witness to the insides of 9664’s skull on more than one occasion. What followed was rarely pleasant. 

Today Sigma enters the chamber devoid of a gun, or his knives, or even his crossbow. 

9664 sits on their bed, watching with something close to skepticism. They do not make a move to get up and, in a show of what he hopes is consideration, Sigma stays within several feet of the door. 

“Did Watcher send you?” they ask, though their pitch drops with each word. A statement, not a question. 

They did not. Sigma blinks slow, trying to pinch together his thoughts into words. They have never come easily to him. For most of his life they have been little more than a vehicle for orders, facts, and warnings. 

“I am leaving tomorrow.” A fact. 9664’s attention is drifting. They have heard it before. They’d learned the date of their departure together, all closed up in a cramped room with nowhere to look but each other. Urgency- Agency- grips him. “I am responsible for monitoring Jack, and for Gray and Svin’s safety.” 

9664 does not cover their mouth when they yawn, nor do they close their eyes. They turn away to adjust their pillow. 

“I will be the primary point of contact between the Foundation and our team,” Sigma says in a rush. Another fact from the same meeting. “If you need to send a message to Jack, or if you remember any additional information that may be useful, speak to W-” 

“What do you want?” 

The words dry up. Sigma’s hands hang limp by his sides. He closes his mouth and looks down to his boots. 

“Why are you here?” 9664 asks with words as sharp as knives. 

There is no love lost between them. Sigma knows this. In truth, he does not know why he is here. He has no useful information to impart, nor does he have information to receive. The spare hours before they depart would be better spent cataloguing his ammunition and resting for the weeks to come. That would be more useful to his safety and the mission than spending his time locked in a cell with a god that has every reason to kill him. 

Sigma wonders when he became accustomed to such things. 

“What,” 

The words come tumbling out in sequence, though he is never sure what comes next before he says it.

“What does Watcher look like to you?” 

9664’s deep blue eyes go wide, and they lock into place with his for perhaps the first time. Sigma feels light-headed, floating tethered to this curiosity that has been pullulating in his chest for far too long. 

9664 breaks contact. “A whale,” they grunt. “An enormous whale with a spear in its mouth.” 

It sounds ludacris, but Sigma has seen many ridiculous things since arriving here. Something builds in the back of his chest and it comes out as a cough, though he thinks it might have started as a laugh. 

There is the slightest smile threatening 9664’s face, though Sigma barely catches it. 

“Anything else?” 

Sigma shakes his head. There is nothing else. That was barely anything to begin with. 

“Then get out of my room, Sigma.” 

Another first. Sigma nods. “Goodbye, 9664.” 

“That’s not my name.” 

Sigma pauses a moment from signaling to the guards. He twists, a half-turn on his heel. 9664 is grinning now, big and wide and malicious. Sigma looks to the camera then back. “What is your name?” 

“That is none of your business.” 

Sigma raises his hand and the lock of the door clicks open. He takes a step through and 9664’s voice follows him. 

“Try not to die. I need you to keep Jack safe.” 

There is no sense in reminding him: Sigma knows his mission and he intends to carry it out just as he always has. 

There is less sense in 9664 reminding him. 

Still. 

He ducks a nod on his way out. 

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more. Perhaps.


End file.
